


in the family of things

by thebladeitself



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe, Based on a NoSleep, Body Horror, Eventual Smut, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, Past Child Abuse, References to Drugs, References to Suicide, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, park ranger au, this author loves subarus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25623283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebladeitself/pseuds/thebladeitself
Summary: "Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,the world offers itself to your imagination,calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --over and over announcing your placein the family of things."-----Park Ranger AU in which Eddie is an Environmental Protections officer at the park where Richie is a ranger.There is spooky stuff. There is gay yearning. There are way too many italics.Based on this NoSleep: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/3iex1h/im_a_search_and_rescue_officer_for_the_us_forest/will probably update weekly :-)
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Comments: 26
Kudos: 37





	1. the trees will cluster / green rage green

**Author's Note:**

> hey y'all. this is my first long-form fan fiction and I've been sitting on it for a while so i hope you are, at the least, entertained !! thanks a million to my best friend ange, without whom i never would have been able to gather the confidence to post this. thank you for your unending support and inspiration, i luv u ;-;
> 
> i admit, this chapter is a little slow and i kinda hate it but it, but i assure you that the story picks up in ch 2 so if you'd like to stick around your perseverance will be rewarded (i hope) it ees what it ees  
> anyways. here you go, sodomites:

With the summer comes gingham picnic blankets, wildflowers brushing against bare ankles, lavender lemonade-- all familiar sights in Neibolt National Park this time of the year. Wholly unfamiliar, however, is the sleek black door of an Audi swinging open to reveal a young man, donning a pressed suit despite the sweltering heat with a woolen bag clutched between latex-clad fingers. He gives a conclusive grimace at the dust that sticks to his prim oxfords as he begins to make his way down the worn path towards a surprisingly well-kept mid-century building-- though he can see a layer of grime coating the window sills which he tries to ignore. He tugs against his tie, regretting his choice of attire, and tries to tell himself that he’s sweating from the sweltering heat rather than the prospect of meeting new people. He works better alone, that’s why he was so good at processing research for Dr. Keene. He never did play well with other children. Maybe because he never got a chance.

As he approaches the rangers’ station, he overhears two voices from behind the door, both men: “--about what happened to the last guy? I mean, it’s kind of fucked if we just let him out there without uh… prepping him? And what about the fuckin’ kids man?”

“We’re not just letting him out there, you’ll be with him. Anyways, you know we’re never gonna get the greenlight to talk about Keene. And he doesn’t need to worry about the damn kids.”

Eddie realizes the two are discussing his former supervisor, Dr. Keene, who had since all but dropped off the face of the Earth after his spring check-in at Neibolt. When Eddie had still been a research assistant, Keene had been the environmental protection officer working onsite seasonally at the park. Eddie had found the man to be too lackadaisical about the job, opting to go out drinking with the rangers and SARs rather than invest time in the research. It was no wonder his collection data was consistently skewed, soil specimens always coming back acidic, bark samples rendered completely unidentifiable, tainted by chemicals and the doctor’s careless disregard for collection policy. Eddie was better than that--he wouldn’t mess up.

“Fuckin’ bureaucrats…” the first voice draws him out of his thoughts. “I guess I better clean up my pile of cigarette butts outside the window, huh.”

Belatedly, Eddie realizes that footsteps are approaching the entrance, but before he can think to move away, the door swings open and his eyes are met with a pair of worn pocket clasps and a finger-smudged name tag reading _R. Tozier_. He drags his eyes upward, past the miss-matched buttons, past a mouth stretching around a toothpick into a grin, to a pair of eyes made buggish by coke-bottle glasses. Thick eyebrows pop up from behind the tortoiseshell rims and Eddie’s eyes drop back down to that mouth, now stretched into a toothy smile. He takes a step back, soles landing abruptly against the dirt, kicking up a plume of dust.

He takes in the man before him, all six-foot-however-many feet of him. His shaggy hair that brushes against a set of broad shoulders and arms covered in a dusting of dark arm hair leading down to two large hands, thumbs tucked into the pockets of his uniform pants. And if Eddie found himself looking at those hands for just a bit too long, well, that's neither here nor there. Before he can make heads or tails of his own thoughts, one of those surprisingly large hands is being thrust towards his chest.

“Howdy.”

Eddie glances down at the man's outstretched limb, his fingers wriggling, inviting Eddie to shake. After pulling his latex glove taught against his own fingers— just in case— he returns the handshake.

“Woah there doctor, I’m not even fifty yet! It’s a little early to be givin’ me the ole—“ he cuts off, waggling his eyebrows and pointer finger suggestively.

It's in this moment that Eddie realizes he hates this man.

The two set off on the easternmost trail after the young ranger announces he’s going to ‘show Eddie the ropes,’ bidding goodbye to the still-unidentified voice within the shadowed reception of the ranger’s station. As they walk, Eddie learns that the man, who calls himself as Richie--although he tells Eddie that he can call him anytime-has oh-so-kindly stepped up to the task of guiding Eddie through the park during the summer research period. He also learns that Richie never shuts up. From the minute his foot steps out of the station door, he's talking, prattling on about any inconsequential thing that comes to mind, only half of it even loosely related to the park, the other half about a movie he watched the other night, or something Bill--whoever the hell that was-- had said over drinks.

The pair make their way along the eastern trail, Eddie trailing slightly behind Richie so as not to get caught in the flurry of the man’s wildly-gesticulating limbs. When Richie runs out of inane factoids to share about himself, he turns to asking Eddie a wide breadth of questions regarding equally inane facts, ranging from where he went to school-- _Johns Hopkins_ \-- to what made him choose Neibolt-- _he cops out and says that he was randomly assigned_ \--and even who would win in a fight between Godzilla and a Kaiju from Pacific Rim-- _who cares_?

“Who cares?” Richie gives him an incredulous stare. “That’s like asking who cares about who would win in like, a World War, dude.”

“No it’s not, world wars actually affect our real lives.”

“Okay well don’t come crying to me when a kaiju rises out of the ocean and eats your house and then you’re homeless, man.”

Eddie simply retorts that he doesn’t live by the coast.

Despite his best efforts to focus on the trail and the breadth of wildlife ahead of him, Eddie has a hard time thinking about anything except the clicking-grind of the fraying toothpick against the other man’s teeth.

“It’s disgusting to chew on a piece of wood soaked in your own saliva for so long. It’s like you’re drinking your own spit germs.” He gives into his annoyance--he’s always had trouble with that.

“Believe me, I’d know a lot about sucking spit with wood in my mouth.” Richie pushes his jaw back and forth, making the toothpick bounce, throwing Eddie a poorly-executed wink.

The other man huffs, “Can’t you just chew gum like a normal person?”

Extracting the toothpick from his mouth, Richie discards the worn wood into his pocket-- making Eddie cringe for the millionth time since they set off on the trail-- and pulls out a pack of gum. He offers one to Eddie, receiving a shaking head in response before popping a piece in his mouth. Richie rattles off facts about the various wildlife and rock formations as they make their way towards the quarry, chewing his gum loudly. Eddie tries to be a good sport and pay attention, but between every other word-- of which there were _a lot_ \-- came a wet-smack of gum against the other man’s teeth. Once again, his eyes lock onto Richie’s lips, but this time, they watch as they break apart with one, two, three snaps of gum and saliva against his teeth.

“Could you possibly chew any louder?”

Startled, Richie shifts clumsily to look at Eddie, before replying, “Chew louder? Sure thing Eds!”

The chewing starts up again, now exaggerated, with Richie pursing and stretching his lips akin to a cow masticating a wad of cud.

“Are you always like this?”

He can’t fathom how someone as immature as Richie could have made it this far in life without someone wringing his neck, and he has a harder time understanding how the man has managed to hang onto a job other than a comedian who performs exclusively at seedy bars in Detroit.

“What,” Richie tucks his hands in a v-shape under his chin, framing his face lopsidedly. “Undeniably charming and witty?”

He leans in and bats his eyelashes a couple times. Eddie draws his eyebrows together and turns away, hoping the other man doesn’t notice the light blush dusting his cheeks due to the close contact. It definitely wasn’t professional to lean in that close to your coworker who you’ve only known for half an hour. And Eddie is a professional.

This, Eddie thinks, is just his fan- _fucking_ -tastic luck that he's going to have to spend the next month and a half being dragged around the park, his fucking pinkies linked with this giant freak.

Eddie can do this job on his own, he knows, he doesn't need a caretaker, and he certainly doesn't need this Seth Rogen wannabe trailing behind him and getting in the way of his research. The reason he had offered to take Keene’s place as the EPO assigned to the Neibolt Wildlife Reserve was to prove to his colleagues, as much as himself, that he was capable of doing the dirty work. The whole reason he had worked his ass off to put himself through college on his own, to live on his own, to go through life _on his own_ was to prove to everyone--to his mother--that he wasn’t delicate or sick, a helpless little boy that needed to be spoon fed medicine-tainted-soup by mommy’s loving hand. And on some level, he realized, he was proving this fact to himself as much as his mother

When he had gotten his first job at the EPA, as a glorified coffee boy, he’d taken on borderline-excessive responsibilities, over-exerting himself to the point of near-burnout just to prove that he was capable. And everyone believed him, so he had no choice but to keep going, climbing up the organizational ladder, taking on more and more responsibility. When Dr. Keene’s job had opened up, Eddie was quick to jump at another chance to prove himself to his superiors, because deep down he knew he still needed their approval, the validation that he was competent, capable, a good worker, a _good boy._ With a start Eddie realizes that in his rush to snatch up Keene’s newly-vacated position, he had taken little time to actually consider the circumstances under which the man left his job.

Looking around at the tall trees bracketing either side of the trail, Eddie ponders that he doesn’t really know what happened to Dr. Keene out in these same woods. How the man had come up for a routine sample collection and disappeared into thin air it seemed, only to be found three days later, malnourished and dehydrated, but more than that, his superiors had told him that Dr. Keene was...different after he returned. Eddie never got to speak to the man before he had all but disappeared again on an indefinite leave of absence. Perhaps, the thought creeps into the back of his mind, it’s not so bad that there’s someone else with him to… keep an eye on things.

He immediately rescinds this thought when Richie smacks a hand against his back, sending him stumbling a few feet forward, kicking plumes of dust up against the cuffs of his trousers as he tries to flinch away from the unexpected touch.

“Woah there, you with me Eds?”

Scowling, Eddie turns around, attempting to stand precariously on one leg while brushing dust off his suit. Sensing the fruitlessness of his endeavour, Eddie starts to walk back down the trail.

"Don't call me Eds," he spits out, voice as dry as the dust now caking his socks--these were his work socks too, dammit.

Richie seems to completely ignore his scathing tone, bulldozing through.

"Just checkin' up on ya, buddy. You were far out there man, I was like 'Earth to Eddie!' And you were like," the other man stands ram-rod straight, dropping his jaw and taking on a thousand-yard stare. "You had me worried for a second there, man."

Eddie stops again and turns on Richie, "Thank you, but I don't need you to worry about me."

He really doesn't. Eddie is an adult. He isn't fragile. He doesn't need to be taken care of.

They walk for a couple more yards, but now Richie is trailing behind Eddie like a kicked puppy, and Eddie tries not to feel guilty about the dejected look that he knows the other man is wearing. If he was being honest with himself, he sort of appreciated the other man's chatter. He should apologize to Richie, for snapping at him, for being maligned and socially stunted, for being a fucking asshole. But instead he says: "I can't believe you really think Godzilla could beat a Kaiju in a fight, they're literally programmed to be warriors."

Well, it's sort of an apology. Richie perks up immediately, and Eddie finds himself relieved that the man has snapped out of his brooding.

"Dude, no, the Kaiju are calculated, sure, but Godzilla has like, passion on his side. Plus why would they fight, they’re in love?"

The conversation flows easily until Richie declares that they should “disagree to agree, man.” The misnomer starts Eddie up on another tirade, which leaves Richie laughing so hard he looks like he’s going to piss himself right here on the trail. Suddenly, Eddie realizes: he had never really spoken with his coworkers, outside of business related small talk, let alone make one of them laugh. He had been so preoccupied with getting ahead and being a model employee that he had neglected to form any real relationships with his coworkers. He wasn't even sure that he was capable of forming such relationships, so unused to contact that didn't involve seeking the approval of his superiors.Now that he has a taste of what it’s like, to be friendly with someone and expect nothing in return, he finds that he likes it. Was that why he was so easily goaded into bickering with Richie? He couldn’t really fathom another reason why he might want to engage in extended conversation with the other man. But the thought is too uncomfortable to dwell on, when he’s already sun-warmed and sweating under his blazer.

Perhaps Eddie doesn’t hate Richie _that_ much.

As the conversation dies down, Eddie begins to really take in his surroundings: to his left, an incline littered with jutting rocks made blurry by the brush of pasque flowers and bursage ambrosias. Oregon’s very own Giverny. And to his right, lodgepole pines descending for miles towards an expansive lake. He’s suddenly struck by how big everything is, and how he seems dwarfed in comparison, small and insignificant amid the sloping slate inclines and towering ponderosas and the multitude of wildlife chittering in unison so that he’s drowning in the distorted buzz of nature. The task of traversing the broad expanse suddenly seems daunting, and he feels undeserving of trying to analyse and protect the life of the park. He doesn’t feel big enough.

Richie must notice the way he’s brought his limbs in and made himself as small as he feels, because the man shoots him an amused smirk and asks “Getting a little spooked, Eds?”

“That’s not my name,” Eddie retorts. He doesn’t address the first part of the sentence, not quite wanting to consider his own feelings of flimsy frame.

“You know,” Richie completely bypasses Eddie’s derision. “These woods are haunted.”

At the last word, he jerks closer to Eddie, as if trying to scare him, his shoes scraping against the dusty path. Eddie merely scoffs.

“No I’m serious, man. Y’know, I’m not supposed to be telling you this but creepy stuff happens in this forest.” Despite his best intentions, Eddie finds himself actually half-listening to the man’s rambling.

“One time a friend of mine, Bill--he’s a search and rescue officer which, by the way, is like, super badass and--” Eddie shoots him a sidelong glance. “Anyways, he and his team are out looking for a guy who hadn't come home from a climbing trip when he was supposed to, and they end up having to do some serious climbing, which is okay for Bill because he’s like super jacked, like really buff as hell--him and Mike, they’re a fucking power couple.”

Upon hearing this, Eddie pretends to look like he isn’t caught off guard by the candor with which Richie talks about Bill and Mike being a _power couple_. Maybe he’s joking around, Eddie thinks.

“And they find the dude trapped in a small crevice with a broken leg. He'd been there for two God damn days, and his leg was very obviously infected, all yellow and oozing, probably with like maggots and shit I dunno man.” Richie pauses as he hears the snap of a latex glove being pulled taught against Eddie’s hand, despite the fact that they’re already covered. “Uh, so--Bill hears from Bev that the guy was going fuckin’ nuts man, like really buggin’ out and cryin’. He kept going on about how he'd gotten to the top, and seen like, a man. No climbing gear. Just a parka and ski pants. And no face.”

Despite not knowing any of the people mentioned in the story, Eddie finds himself being drawn in as Richie lowers his voice as he approaches the climax. He feels a throbbing pressure against his ribs.

“So the guy fuckin’ freaks and starts running down the mountain, and ‘course he trips and falls because that shit is _steep_ ” Without thinking, Eddie finds himself turning towards Richies voice, becoming more and more engrossed in the story. “He said he could hear the guy all night,” Richie draws out the ‘l’ sound, leaning in close to Eddie's ear, “climbing down the mountain and screaming.”

Eddie quickly glances at Richie, trying to school his face into a neutral expression. “And you know what he was screaming?” In a faux-nonchalant voice Eddie asks, “what?”

“Help me Rydon! Help me!” Richie widens his eyes, raising his voice and taking on a warbling falsetto as he imitates the cries of the man.

“Who--” Eddie hesitates. “Who’s Rydon?”

Richie turns to Eddie, his head moving like a wood door creaking open ever-so-slowly. With a wolfish grin on his face he shouts:

“Rydon this dick!”

He falls into hysterics as Eddie stands for a moment, slack jawed, before seething. Stomping over to where Richie is now doubled over with laughter, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. “Fuck off, that is so immature. Are you literally twelve years old?” “Hey,” Richie attempts to compose himself. “You’re the one that fell for it, man.” Despite his efforts--because he really is trying not to laugh, he _promises_ \--light giggles still fall from his lips every couple of seconds.

Huffing, Eddie stomps ahead of Richie and for the second--or is it third, maybe fourth--time within the last hour Eddie finds himself questioning how he ended up in this position; he’s a professional, he went to John Hopkins for God’s sake and now he’s traipsing around a forest with a trash-mouthed man-child.

He hears Richie start to jog, trying to catch up to him, tentatively calling out:

“Hey, Eddie I’m sorry okay man. I’m really sorry that you didn’t have enough of a childhood to not fall for a ‘deez nuts’ joke man.”

Richie snickers, and consciously, Eddie knows the other man is joking, but the jibe hits just a bit _too_ close to home. Then, abruptly, Richie’s chuckles stop, and Eddie feels a calloused hand wrap around his elbow, a light pressure through the overwhelming two layers he’s wearing.

“Uh, we should, probably head back now--I think, I gotta show you--”

And then, Eddie tunes the other man out. He looks off to the west, paralyzed. A couple yards ahead of the two men, in a clearing seemingly untouched by the sunlight streaming through the pine needles, is a staircase.

Just, a whole staircase, like it was lifted straight out of a model home and dropped in the middle of the clearing. Devoid of leaves or overgrowth, completely clean, almost looking recently waxed. How, Eddie thinks, did they get there? They couldn’t have been part of a now torn-down house, they’re fucking _pristine_. Dread washes over him, and he suddenly feels feverish and weak in the knees. He wants to kneel down in the dirt, sullying his suit, digging his legs into the dust until he's buried in the trail, jutting out of the earth like a weed to be pulled while beetles creep between his ribs.

Inexplicably, he wants to cry and burst out laughing all at once. He’s having a hard time looking directly at the stairs, like each time he casts his gaze upon them he completely loses focus. The image in front of him is distorted and staticky, like a late night Skinemax with the volume turned low, and all he can hear is the sound of his own breathing and the blood rushing in his ear and the complete absence of the sounds of life.

Again, a hand against his elbow pulls him out of his reverie, this time, a vice-like grip pulling him back the way they came along the path. At first, he thinks he’s going to turn to find his mother, glaring back at him, palm open and raised, ready to punish him for being a _bad boy_ and looking at something he’s not supposed. Because he feels like he’s seen something he shouldn’t have. Instead, he fixes his eyes against the hand wrapped around his arm, up Richie’s muscular, hair-dusted forearms and to his eyes, which are turned away from Eddie’s looking straight ahead, seeing right through the thick brush of trees. His mouth is pressed into a thin line and skin marbled white and taut.

“What were--”

Richie cuts Eddie off, “Don’t fucking mention it, man. Just don’t”

From his tone, Eddie thinks that Richie seems almost disappointed. And like he’s ashamed of himself.

“What the hell do you mean ‘don’t mention it’?” Eddie takes on a mocking impersonation of Richie’s slightly-nasal voice. It’s a shitty impression, but Richie doesn’t comment on it, doesn’t laugh. For some reason, that makes Eddie more concerned.

Spluttering momentarily, Eddie reels before coming back to himself and launching into a barrage of questions because: “how in the hell is there a full, untouched staircase in the middle of the forest. Did someone accidentally leave it here on a picnic? And why the fuck are you being so tight-lipped for. I didn’t know you knew how to shut up--”

Richie whirls around towards Eddie, but he doesn’t look angry. He looks...strained. And tired.

“Look I-- there’s stuff about this park, this woods that I’m not allowed to tell you about. Stuff that I don’t even know I could tell you about if I _could_. I know I was fuckin’ with you earlier but I wasn’t kidding when I say this woods is weird, okay? And it’s just,” Richie sighs and looks away again. “You're gonna see them all the time, but don't go near them. Don't touch them, don't go up them. Just ignore them. It’s just better if you focus on the job and don’t ask questions, man. For your sake.”

And Eddie knows he’s here to focus on his work, that’s what he’s been trying to do but now he can’t imagine doing so when he feels like he’s been dropped in a damn Twilight Zone episode..

“Just,” Richie takes on a stern tone. “Stay away from the fucking staircase.”

Something about the shake in Richie’s voice that he’s obviously trying to hide, something about the way his eyes are looking anywhere but into Eddie’s, and the way he keeps taking his hand in and out of his pocket--it makes Eddie reconsider any retort he could have come up with.

They make their way back to the station in silence.

\---

When they arrive at the station, an awkward eternity later, Richie shows him to where his office will be, weaving Eddie through the tastelessly-appropriative Native American style decor of the station interior. Eddie desperately wants to talk more--a feeling he’s simultaneously completely unused to and all-too familiar with--but he thinks back to the look in Richie's eyes, his eyelids stretched wide and pupils darting like the man was watching a tennis game. Even if he could pluck up the courage to ask Richie about the stairs, he finds that the memory of them is already beginning to fade, and his mind is struggling to conjure up the image that was in front of him only half an hour ago.

He spends several hours organizing his work space, pulling out a label maker from his messenger bag, making Richie bark out a quick laugh before shaking his head, and categorizing his desk drawers. As he sets about color-coding his pens, he overhears Richie begin to talk with a disembodied voice, saying “--yeah I just told him to fucking ignore it, but I don’t know how long I can--” he gets cut off. “Yeah I know I don’t have a fucking choice, I just--” Richie’s voice trails off, but Eddie finds that, though he thinks he should know what they’re talking about, he can’t quite figure out the context of the conversation. He returns his attention to his pens.

That night, Eddie drives back to the small apartment he’s renting in the run-down town five miles south of the park, the horizon swallowing up the dying orange sun at his right. As he crawls into bed, new linens wrapping almost suffocatingly around his shoulders, Eddie falls asleep feeling as though his head is resting against a hard-wood step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rydon this dick goes out to my friend zane, he'll never read this but gee-golly does that boy love 'deez nuts'
> 
> thank you sm for reading !! comments are much appreciated ;-; if i'm being honest, this chapter was the most ''''''lighthearted'''''' out of the ones i have written, and the following chapters will be, tonally, a bit more dramatic,,at least i hope
> 
> follow me on tumblr @ragingmathboner or twitter @miathaccer


	2. vera pavlovna suck my dick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Eddie thinks of spending the night with Richie, Richie’s friends, booze, and, again, Richie. “Sorry, I have a lot of field work tomorrow, so,” Eddie trails off, waiting for Richie to enact the final blow, to put the pieces together so Eddie doesn’t have to utter an explicit no to those wide, cow-eyes.
> 
> “Oh, yeah, of course you’re--you’re here for work. It’s cool, man.” Richie ruffles the hair at the back of his head self-consciously. He coughs, but it comes out as more of a laugh-sob-cough and now Eddie isn’t even sure Richie was coughing in the first place. “Well,” Richie slaps his hands against his thighs like a white dad making his exodus from the HOA barbecue. “I’ll get outta your hair.” He turns on his heel, leaving Eddie alone again, with his soil samples."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello lgbt community,,, here is another wretched chapter. hopefully it's better than the first one (i think it is). at least there's more """"""'romantic""""""" content (playing it kinda fast and loose w that word but idc)
> 
> once again, many of the short horror segments are taken from this thread : https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/3iocju/im_a_search_and_rescue_officer_for_the_us_forest/
> 
> tw: body horror, implied/referenced child abuse

On Eddie’s second day, Richie brings him coffee.

\---

Eddie looks dumbly at the cup that has been set down in front of him, the steeping hot coffee inside most definitely melting into the cups plastic lining to create a noxious steam rising up from the small hole in the condensation-laden cap. He takes a tentative sip, trying not to let the coffee-plastic-poison-cancer fumes sneak into his brain.

“So, what time did you want to head out? I know you probably gotta get started soon—“

Eddie cuts the other man off: “I’ll go on my own, thanks.”

“Man, Eds, I don’t know if that’s—“ Richie is cut off for again, this time with a pointed look.

“I appreciate your concern, but I am qualified to do my job without a babysitter.” Eddie begins to gather his things, not interested in being smothered anymore. “And my name is Eddie.”

He steps out of his office into the reception, where two rangers Eddie doesn’t know the names of are watching him with amusement as Richie trails behind him, dejected and stammering something about “being careful” like Eddie is a child.

One of the other rangers leans into him and leers: “You better watch out princess, the woods can be a scary place for little boys like you.” He leans back to the other ranger and the two laugh. Eddie merely casts them a disdainful glare, pushing his way out of the station.

From behind him comes the sound of Richie’s voice in retort, but the door is already shut behind him.

Eddie seethes for the entire mile and a half it takes to get to the quarry on the west side of the park, the swinecress shrinking their leaves away from his heavy steps, annoyance radiating off of him in waves.

It seemed that having a graduate degree from an Ivy League school and a successful government job couldn’t ensure he would be taken seriously like he had hoped. Perhaps it was something innate to him that made _him_ small and pathetic, needing to be coddled by the gaze of a watchful eye. 

And Richie… Eddie should have known better. Whatever he thought of Richie yesterday, when the man had held a conversation with him like he saw Eddie as a real person, when he had grasped the joint of Eddie’s elbow in his large palms, strong and gentle, pulling him back to safety. Pulling him away from a danger that he thought Eddie was too weak to handle. 

Sighing, Eddie drops down into a squat, pulling a pair of latex gloves over his fingers and retrieving two small vials from his bag. He takes note of the temperature—first of the air, then that of the soil. Then, teaspoon in hand, he begins to sift around, wiggling his fingers past the dry crust of the land to reach the moist soil below, scooping spongy clumps of dirt into each of the vials until each is filled precisely to the 20 mL mark. He plants a small stake in the spent collection site before walking several yards to the left and repeating the process—rummage, scoop, move along.

He’s four samples deep, the quarry floor becoming a vampire’s chest, wooden stakes buried deep in its ribs, when the hairs on his neck begin to stand on end. He rests on his haunches, eyes scanning the circumference of the quarry like a cowering animal amid the skyscraping lodgepoles and deep, heady air.

A piercing screech breaks through the air, like a wooden pike ripping through flesh and bone sharp and rough and painful, leaving remnants of its presence buried in Eddie’s consciousness even after it ends. Now, Eddie stands up, trying to look in the direction of the wail. It’s a cougar, he tells himself, cougars always sound like that. But he knows the scream didn’t sound like that of a cougar--it was too loud, too all-consuming, like it blocked out the normal sounds of the forest, wrapping around Eddie’s head and crawling into Eddie’s skull through every pore to sink its claws into his brain.

Sucking in a haggard breath, Eddie squats back down and tries to return to his work, but the more time passes, the less he is able to shake the dregs of fear from his mind, and he is suddenly consumed by the need to flee. It’s as if he’s no longer able to reason with himself, an insect caught in the jaws of a creature infinitely bigger than himself. He’s looking into the eyes of the Beast of Revelation, heeding its call to kneel and bare the tender tissue of his eyes, of his mind. 

An oppressive force is suddenly all around him, the sounds of the forest are suddenly too loud, and he’s unable to tell if he can hear birds chirping and leaves rustling or if he’s still picking up the afterquake of the scream ringing in his ears and rattling his teeth. The sun is beating down on him, making him feel swaddled in heat and caked dirt. He can’t breathe and before he realizes, his feet are pounding against the trail, dust clouding around him with each footfall making his lungs ache and his eyes water. He feels like he’s been running for hours, his sweat-soaked work shirt clinging uncomfortably to his sides--but, he can’t stop. He doesn’t know what--if anything--will happen is he skids to a halt, lets the dust settle. But something tells him not to risk it. 

When he finally reaches the station, his whole body feels like loose sand, the tide of gravity pulling parts of him down towards the ocean beneath him. His legs shake with exertion and he’s suddenly so tired he wants nothing but to give in to the tide and sink into the supple earth beneath his feet. 

He reaches out, resting his hand on the copper door handle, just letting it sit there, caught in a state of limbo between the quarry and the station. He pushes the door open.

When the door swings open, the first thing Eddie sees is Richie’s head spring up from where he’s sitting at the reception desk.

Upon seeing Eddie, he shoots up, hands hovering awkwardly at his sides. “Eddie, you’re--”

Eddie’s struck by how worried the other man looks, his hair mussed up like he’s been running his long, thin fingers through the greasy strands. Eddie is almost touched by Richie’s concern. Almost. “Were you waiting for me?”

Richie completely ignores the question, instead exclaiming: “Are you okay, Jesus-- you look like shit.” His eyes widen, “Or, I mean--” 

“I’m fine.” Eddie brushes past Richie into his own office and shuts the door.

\---

And on Eddie’s third and fourth days, Richie brings him coffee.

\---

“Shit!” Eddie snaps his hand back from the wooden beam leading up to the station door, drawing it protectively towards his chest and scowling at the offending piece of detritus--just his luck, he’s getting _fucking_ tetanus before he even clocks in. He inspects his palm where a quarter-inch piece of oak has nestled itself inside his hand, going straight down seeming to reach for his bone.

Back at the rangers’ station, Eddie scours his bag before retrieving a pair of tweezers, a small magnifying glass attached. It’s disconcerting, he thinks, to have a piece of wood inside your skin, like mother nature is trying to crawl back into your body and reclaim it. His hand trembles as he positions the metal prongs. He has the teeth of the instrument hovering just above the splinter before he hears a “woah” form the entrance. 

Startled, he can’t quite come up with a witty response when Richie lilts, “Interrupting something here, Eds? Not really appropriate to get your rocks off in a public place, man.” 

He fake laughs, once again lowering the tweezers toward his palm. 

“God, and you even need a magnifying glass to see your dick? That’s rough buddy,” Richie tuts faux-sympathetically, his bottom lip coming out in an exaggerated pout. 

This makes Eddie lookup.

“Oh, you know--” Eddie splutters a bit, “you’re one to talk about small fucking dicks, you know those cargo pants don’t leave a lot to the imagination, and--” Footsteps approaching the desk cut his tirade short, and a pair of calloused hands enter his line of sight before gingerly lifting his hand and taking the tweezers from his grip. 

“Let me.” Richie’s tone is gentler now. 

Eddie can feel his breath against his fingertips, huffing out between his tongue, which he’s stuck out in concentration. He tingles, knowing Richie is gazing at part of him so intently, cradling Eddie’s delicate hands in his larger ones. Desperately, he tries to focus on the pain, the sensation of wood and metal invading his skin. Anything to distract himself from the feeling of Richies rough fingertips curling gently around his palm, of Richie’s soft breath brushing against his hand, of the fact that his hand is so _close_ to Richie’s face that he could reach out and touch his cheek, run his fingers over his eyebrow and down the dip of his nose and feather-soft over his crepe-paper eyelids. If he was braver. All at once, he feels hollowed out and like he's about to choke on a wad of cotton. He thinks his whole body must shake with something he can’t quite identify. Eddie feels the metal teeth latch onto the piece of wood before gently pulling it out. There’s a pause before Richie drops his hand like a hot stone, taking an abrupt step back and rubbing his hands against his uniform pants. 

“Thanks.” 

It comes out sounding just as scooped-out as Eddie feels. 

“No problem, um, it’s--yeah it's fine.” Richie barely makes it through the sentence in one piece, and before Eddie can muster a response, Richie has stumbled into the rec room. 

Eddie sits there, holding his breath and pressing against the dull ache of the wound.

It’s later, and Eddie has stared at enough microscopic soil particulates that he feels like his eyes are six feet under, and he’s bumped his sore heel of his palm against the desk about a million times. From the corner of his eye, Eddie can see Richie poke his head through the open door of his office; he doesn’t acknowledge the other man’s presence, waiting for him to speak first.

“Some friends and I are gonna get drinks tonight down at The Hungry Dog, they’re all dying to meet the sorry fucker who got stuck working with me,” he laughs but there’s no mirth. “So, I thought I’d bring you along? We can ride together.”

Eddie thinks of spending the night with Richie, Richie’s friends, booze, and, again, _Richie_. “Sorry, I have a lot of field work tomorrow, so,” Eddie trails off, waiting for Richie to enact the final blow, to put the pieces together so Eddie doesn’t have to utter an explicit _no_ to those wide, cow-eyes.

“Oh, yeah, of course you’re--you’re here for work. It’s cool, man.” Richie ruffles the hair at the back of his head self-consciously. He coughs, but it comes out as more of a laugh-sob-cough and now Eddie isn’t even sure Richie was coughing in the first place. “Well,” Richie slaps his hands against his thighs like a white dad making his exodus from the HOA barbecue. “I’ll get outta your hair.” He turns on his heel, leaving Eddie alone again, with his soil samples.

“Have fun.” It’s belated, and Eddie’s sure Richie hadn’t even heard him.

That night, as Eddie lay in bed, he turns toward the brightness from the other side of the room. Light pours out of the windows of the building opposite his own, seeping through the slats of his blinds: yellow, black, yellow, black ad infinitum. The vestiges of lives apart from his own needling their way into his room. He stares out at the fragmented light into the early hours, hoping to see some movement, the slivers of a shadow passing through the bars of light, a fleeting connection with another person though yards apart. It doesn’t come. Eddie doesn’t sleep that night. 

The coffee that gets placed on his desk the next morning is a lifeline.

\---

And on Eddie’s fifth day, Richie brings him coffee.

\---

Two days after the not-cougar screaming incident, Eddie realizes that he’s been so preoccupied with analyzing what he brought back and obsessing over his own social ineptitude that he’s left half of his supplies back at the quarry. Pushing his chair out behind him, the pneumatic releasing a puff of air as he stands, he goes to head towards the quarry before stopping in his tracks. As much as he’s been trying to push the memories of that day to the back of his mind, the thought of trudging for an hour, on his own, through the dense shrubbery towards the desolate quarry makes a cold chill run up his spine. He thinks about walking over to Richie’s office and asking him to drive him down to the quarry, to pick up his things, tail between his legs and the rangers’ from that day's laughs mingling with the dust in the wake of Richie’s tires. Eddie’s a big boy. He can go by himself. It takes him twenty minutes to psyche himself up.

And on his way out the door, he makes a detour to Richie’s office. Because he really is weak.

“Hey, Richie,” he squares his shoulders, trying to look casual even though they both know Eddie has never been “causal” in his life. “I left some of my supplies down at the quarry, would it be possible to drive down there so I can get it.” Without waiting for a word of judgement from the other man, Eddie tacks on: “I’d like to save time, and the truck is quicker.”

The judgment that Eddie is sure to come never does. Instead, Richie stands and throws a fleece jacket over his shoulders with a “sure thing Eds.”

“That’s not my name,” Eddie retorts, forcing the words out past the overwhelming relief that he doesn’t have to go back _alone_.

The drive is, like all time spent in Richie’s company, a cacophony of asinine pop culture references, bastardized impressions, and a warmth that Eddie has never known until he arrived only five days ago. Maybe it’s the way that Richie talks to him like they’re old childhood friends--which he had few of, so maybe he can pretend that Richie is one, long lost and long missed. Or maybe it’s how Richie beams at him over the center console when Eddie tells him he’s a _dumbass_ or _not making any damn sense_ , all five o’clock shadow and summer sunlight, framed by a halo of pine needles. The aging brakes of the battered truck whine as they reach the quarry, and Eddie doesn’t want to leave the car. When his soles finally make contact with the patchy valley grass, he sees Richie standing awkwardly, looking at the field of wooden stakes, hands on his hips which are oscillating slowly like he feels--ironically--out of his element.

“Thanks for making me grab all the shit by myself, good to know chivalry is dead after all.” Eddie begins to pull the stakes out of the dirt, re-soiling the now bereft divots in the earth. 

“Thought it would be best to leave it to you, Eds. Didn’t want you biting my head off.”

Despite himself, Eddie smirks and retorts: “Maybe you do have _one_ functioning brain cell, Tozier.”

“He’s workin’ overtime, man!” Richie turns to him and puts on a tender expression and coos: “he takes after you.”

The pair are halfway back to the car when Richie’s radio emits a buzz of static, and a voice comes over saying: “Rich, you out now?” Eddie thinks he recognizes the voice from the first day.

“Affirmative, I’m out by the quarry just goin’ skinny dipping.” Richie elbows Eddie and giggles like they’re twelve years old, passing notes in math class.

“Great, we got a girl who went missing from her girlfriend near Illahee Spring-- 17, 5’2”, missing at about 6:25 PM. She’s got on a black shirt with blue jeans, dyed gray hair, and glasses.”

Richie mutters a _shit_ under his breath. Eddie back on the conversation he overheard when he first arrived, Richie mentioning something about missing kids, he feels his throat swell.

“Alright, you got everyone else out, too? I don’t wanna overlap--” Richie is still talking but Eddie can’t focus on the staticky words on the other end of the signal. Thoughts of this girl, only 17 and alone in forest, lost. Eddie wonders if she heard the scream, too. If she got scared and ran off. Maybe she heard something else. When Eddie comes back to himself, he realizes that Richie is looking at him expectantly.

“I’ll drop you off at the station, yeah?”

Despite his confusion, Eddie still finds it in himself to be annoyed at the implication. “You can take off the kid gloves, Tozier, I’m trained for this shit too.”

Richie shoots him a dubious look, opening and closing his mouth several times before responding, “Yeah, okay, right.” Eddie doesn’t point out that all three words mean the same thing.

They make their way west, towards Illahee Spring. Though the sun won’t set for another two hours the thick pine canopy makes the woods look blurry and watery, like a damaged negative. Debris crunches beneath two sets of boots as the pair make their way through the dense undergrowth, the only sound being the intermittent buzzing of a radio transmission. Eddie tunes them out, they're all the same anyways; no one can find the girl. 

The entire time, Eddie’s skin feels like it's crawling; every so often, he catches a slight movement in his peripheral vision--a brushstroke of white slashed just perceptible to his eye, but when he turns to look it’s already washed away by the fading light of the summer sun.

They trudge on for an hour, which then stretches into two, into three. They’ve made little headway, much like the rest of the search party, who seem about ready to pack it in. When they voice this over the radio, Richie meets them with a firm “fuck off.” Despite the unprofessionalism, Eddie is inclined to agree. The sun has almost completely faded, the forest now a murky black save for fledgling sparks of orange light igniting between the truss of branches, and Eddie can hardly stomach the thought of leaving a child alone in the inky depths of the woods. He and Richie have hardly spoken in the last hour, having come to the silent agreement to devote the few hours they have left in the day to bringing the girl home safe. Or, at least bringing her home. They didn’t need to say any more.

Eddie’s eye catches another flash of color, but this time, when he turns to seek out the inevitability of an empty gaze, he finds a girl, instead. Crouched beneath a log, thin limbs huddled in close, wide eyes looking into his own. Without thinking, he reaches out, fingertips seeking out Richie’s own.

“Richie,” his mouth is dry. “She’s here.”

Richie jumps into action at Eddie’s words, leaving him prone. While the other man checks on the girl--asks for her name, age, her last memory before getting lost--Eddie watches, always the observer and always feeling useless, all his bravado about “knowing how to do his job” flying out the metaphorical window as he watches Richie’s careful movements inspecting the girl for injury, all the while reassuring her. Eddie selfishly takes some of those reassurances for himself. He sees now, how Richie does his job. It’s not how Eddie does. Richie is caring, he’s gentle with the girl, his voice _sotto voce_ as he coaxes her to unfurl her limbs and take his hand. Each step he takes toward the truck is assured, like he knows exactly where his foot will land when it hits the floor. Eddie wishes he could say the same.

Richie continues to take the crisis in stride, even when the girl’s voice wavers, “why is that big man with black eyes following us.” Eddie and Richie share a pointed look over the girls head, which she has ducked down against her chest, before shifting their eyes to the path behind them. There is no man.

“There’s no man behind us.” 

But the girl only shakes her head in response. Eddie cautions another furtive glance over his shoulder, but still, there’s nothing, no one.

They manage to walk another twenty minutes without incident--though with significantly more rubbernecking. However, as they get closer to the truck, the girl grows more and more agitated, twitching her fingers against the dirtied cloth of hir shirt, tucking her head into her chest before snapping it up and shaking it, over and over again. 

“Please, tell him to stop making faces at me.”

The pair don't hazard another look behind them, the girl having made each increasingly-frantic request without having looked over her shoulder once. Eddie chalks it up to shock. He hopes to God it's shock. 

They’re about 10 yards from the truck when she starts screaming. Doing a complete 180, she starts yelling at the line of trees behind them, begging the unknown entity to “leave us alone please, please” until her voice is raw and her cheeks are ruddy and tracked with tears. When she takes a step towards the line of trees, Richie reaches out, long fingers curling around her elbow much in the same way they had with Eddie, that first day. Richie lowers his voice even more, to a gentle tenor, coaxing her back saying “It’s okay, me and Eds are here and we’re strong. Well, not Eds so much but he sure is scary when he gets riled up.” He offers her a placating smile. Eddie finds _himself_ feeling safe, unbeknownst to Richie.

He barely gets his foot off the ground when the coughing starts. Except it’s not coughing like he’s hard before. It’s the echo of coughing, rhythmic and deep, thrumming through his very bones. It’s like an insect. He feels it under his skin and around his head like an earwig trying to crawl into his skull. It’s coming from behind them. Richie looks at him once more over the girls head, but he no longer looks confused. He just looks scared. Eddie never wants to see him look that way again.

“He says to speed up. He doesn’t want to see us anymore.” Unlike Eddie and Richie, the girl is no longer scared, now, she’s simply staring straight ahead, looking past the truck, past the station, past the very horizon into something Eddie isn’t sure he’d recognize even if he could see it. With a puff of warm air against his neck, Eddie hears a cough. Right in his ear. He nearly jumps right out of his skin and by Richie’s parallel reaction, Eddie thinks he must have heard something similar. They high tail it to the truck, practically dragging the now-catatonic girl into the vehicle, speeding away from the quarry.

They make it back to the station barring any new developments; the girl is reunited with her girlfriend, having made a full recovery in the duration of the car ride, seemingly having forgotten the harrowing incident that occurred only minutes prior. Despite the overwhelming desire to leave once all the paperwork has been completed, Eddie lingers, like a ghost in the hallway waiting for Richie. Waiting for what? To see if the other man is okay? To see if he feels the same gutting dread, the same fear that makes him feel small and weak and completely at the mercy of something he can’t see and will never truly know? But when Richie finally emerges from his office, the last of the reports having been sent off, he simply looks at Eddie with a tired smile, it doesn’t reach his eyes and it's fuzzy with exhaustion and anxiety and a half-formed beard. But it shoots straight down to Eddie’s core, knocking him flat. It gives Eddie the courage he needs to walk to his car and drive off.

It’s only when he unlocks his front door does the bone-deep exhaustion that’s been festering since Richie first received the radio call sinks in. He goes through his nighttime routine robotically--undress, wash, brush, dress, wax-on, wax-off. He sinks into his bed and closes his eyes, only to open them moments later. Something is different. He’s no longer in his flat. Instead, he’s at the base of the stairs in his mother’s home. Foliage creeps over the edges of the stairs, thistles and white clovers sprouting up between the beige carpet. He places his foot on the first step, then the second, then he skips the third because he knows it creaks and he doesn’t want mommy to know he’s coming to bed so late. He reaches the top of the staircase and looks down, his path now overgrown with weeds--there’s no way back down. He turns left, to where he knows his room lay ten paces ahead of him. The door is ajar, yellow light creeping out. He pushes the door open, careful not to disturb the hinges-- _mommy’s sleeping_.

The carpet of the hallway gives way to the wood floors of his bedroom. Eyes cast downwards, he traces the grain of the wooden slats, past the bookshelf, past the foot of the bed, until his pupils meet the tips of his mother’s slippers. She’s standing at the head of the bed, arm stretched impossibly long towards him, palm open cradling a handful of rainbow-corn pills. He tries to reach out to take them, but he can’t move his arms. He feels his mother getting impatient. _You have to take your pills Eddie-bear_. _You know how sick you are_. _How can you be so cruel to your mother_. _I love you_. _But now I’m going to have to be cruel back._

Still unable to move his arms, he leans down, until his lips hover above his mother’s outstretched palm. He opens his lips, mouthing at the pills, reaching for them with his tongue, tasting their chalky coating and catching his tongue on the salt-soft skin of his mother’s hand. He chokes and gags on the dry pills and the taste of sweat and cleaning agent on his mother’s sallow skin. _Good boy_ , she tells him. _My good boy_. Like a dog, he takes his treats right from the palm of her hand, preening at her praise, rolling over and exposing his tender belly, baring to her all of his weakest spots, yielding to her. He wants to be a good boy.

Her fingers wrap around his chin, drawing his face up, up, up until he’s knelt against the ground, gazing up at her from the prayer position. But this is not his mommy. His mommy wasn’t so tall. She wasn’t blurry and shaky and all moving around like she had maggots in her skin. His mommy didn’t have black pits for eyes.

He tries to scramble away, just as she starts to let out deep, hacking coughs that seem to force their way out of her belly, shaking her entire frame. He pushes himself back towards the wall of his room with his legs, useless arms still prone at his sides. He squeezes his eyes shut and crumples inwards, making himself small and hoping against all odds that he’s too small for her to see. 

Eyelids cracking open a sliver, Eddie realizes his mother is gone. He’s back in his flat, gray-orange lines of sunlight streaming through his blinds. 

He showers and tells himself it was just a dream. He gets in the car and tells himself it was just a dream. He closes his office door without a word to Richie and tells himself it was just a dream. But for the entire day, his mouth tastes like chalk. 

\---

On Eddie's sixth day, Richie brings him coffee..

\---

The pair are out, Richie watching over Eddie and guiding him as he collects soil samples from the quarry in the park. Eddie glances up and watches Richie, framed by the high-afternoon sun, hands on his hips, looking out over the expanse of the park. Distracted, Eddie drops one of the samples he collected, cursing under his breath as it rolls into the stagnant water ahead of him, gentle ripples carrying the vial towards the middle of the pond. He sees Richie’s boots come into view, and then he’s stepping into the dark water, which comes halfway up his calf as he reaches to retrieve the vial. Eddie cringes at the thought of Richie’s boots becoming water-logged and the trek he’ll have to make back to the station as microbe-riddled water and mud squelch around in his shoes. But then, he looks upward and sees Richie, looking back at him with a dopey grin on his face as he proudly presents the vial. 

Putting on his best game show host voice, Richie says: “Well, lookie here! Now this is some genu-ine dirt if I do say so myself-- well this must be the finest dog-gone dirt I done seen in my whole life!”

“What kind of fucking accent is that? No one was mining for dirt, dipshit.” 

Eddie tentatively slides his foot closer to the edge of the water, holding out his hand for the vial, but Richie just stares at him, biting down on his bottom lip trying to contain his grin. “Come on shithead,” Eddie shakes his outstretched hand for emphasis. 

“You're gonna get dysentery from standing in that fucking cesspool.” 

“You know, for a guy who studied public health, I think you have a pretty skewed understanding of like, disease and shit.” 

“I think I’d know about shit considering how much time I spend around you.” 

Richie’s grin stretches impossibly larger and he extends the vial towards Eddie: an olive branch. A _faux_ olive branch, Eddie realizes, as Richie snatches back his arm just as Eddie grinds his foot across the loose gravel towards the bank. The sudden movement causes Eddie to slip and suddenly he’s stumbling into the pond with Richie, fetid water creeping up the fiber of his trousers. 

“Are you fucking--” Eddie splutters as he reaches out to shove Richie’s shoulder. He snaps his head up towards Richie, ready to start off on a long-winded trade about the plethora of diseases swimming around in standing water when he sees Richie, laughing softly, bottom lip still caught between his teeth as he regards Eddie with an uncomfortably soft expression. Then, without warning, Richie kicks his foot out of the water, spraying water across Eddie’s front before a single complaint can tumble out of Eddie’s open mouth. Eddie splutters --because _oh my god the water got in my fucking mouth I’m gonna kill him_ \-- and then kicks his own foot out of the water, spraying Richie’s uniform with a pattern mirroring that on his own clothes. Before they know it, they’re shoving each other, trying to scoop up water and dump it over the other’s head, the vial of soil floating towards the opposite bank, forgotten.

They stumble around, casting ripples of olive green around them as they giggle and shout like children in the petri dish of a pond. Eventually, they walk back to the station, wet clothes clinging uncomfortably to their skin, shoes leaking water with every step. It’s disgusting. Eddie finds that he doesn’t mind. 

That night he dreams of the pond, concentric circles rippling outwards, and in the middle, Richie. Eddie knows it's him but his features are indistinguishable. He’s bathed in a bright, blinding-white light. He is the white light, absorbing every color, every noise, every ounce of sunlight that shines through the thick canopy. Richie is _everything_ and he steps towards Eddie, reaching out and burning his forearms where their skin connects. Eddie reaches to grab his face and it hurts, it's electric and burning and it feels like his whole body is thrumming with energy. He wants to tear his hands away. He wants to cradle his head forever, to squeeze his hands into fists so tight that they crack his skull and let the white light pour out of the cracks between Richie’s eye sockets, burning the whole forest down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aiya ...........finally, some fucking gay yearning. i originally created the title for this chapter when it revolved more around dreams but i kept it bc I like being pretentious so i guess i'll just have to be burnt at the stake
> 
> if anyone's curious, the title is themed after a section from nikolai chernyshevskii's "what is to be done?" if you like Russian philosophy, go check it out !! if you don't then at least keep reading this fic,, I promise there's no more eastern european philosophy ;-)
> 
> next chapter will probably be out early because i want the serotonin i get from the like,, three kudos i get when i post


	3. Swiss cheese

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He takes two quick puffs, holding his breath, cheeks puffed out as he looks at himself in the mirror. He looks like shit—dishevelled and sweaty, cheeks ruddy with alcohol and shame and doe-eyes blown wide like he’s done a bump of coke and seen God. Maybe he has. He thinks of Richie, when he gets sick of looking at himself. He thinks of the man’s expanse of a chest, his strong jawline and even stronger arms; he thinks of the scruff on his chin and his thick, untrimmed eyebrows and his bright, maple-brown bat eyes behind their thick lenses. He thinks Richie is gross, but he likes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was,,, may favourite chapter to write and probably my favourite chapter in general so pls enjoy :-)

Eddie arrives at work the next morning still unable to shake off the crick in his neck that he woke up with. Palming the junction of his shoulder, he scrapes the sole of his shoes against the coir doormat outside the station entrance, though he soon realizes how pointless the effort had been when he sees the minefield of dirty footprints and crumbs coating the station floor.

He crosses the station, passing Richie’s office, which is empty, save for a careworn wooden desk, the hairpin legs straining under the weight of the piles of documents, binders, and gum wrappers scattered across the top. 

The sound of air seeping out of Eddie’s pneumatic chair fills the room as he spends an inordinate amount of time raising and lowering the seat for peak ergonomic efficiency. He reconciles himself to the fact that his back is going to hurt no matter how tall the chair is. He finally slots his thighs between his desk’s pedestal drawers as he hears the station door click open, and heavy footfalls land against the unpolished floors. The footsteps cross the threshold of the station and pass through the reception, then, surprisingly, past Richie’s office towards his own. Unconsciously, Eddie tenses as the footsteps stop at the doorway of his workroom, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck rise because he  _ knows _ that it’s just Richie come to pester him even in the early work hours, but his mind is suddenly back in his childhood home, curled in bed and squeezing his eyes shut as he waits,  _ prays _ for his mother’s footsteps to pass his doorway without intervention.

Just as he sucks in a sharp, haggard breath a hand shoots into his field of vision, carrying a greasy lump wrapped in branded wax paper. Looking up, Eddie is met with Richie’s expectant gaze, a soft smile playing on his lips. Eddie averts his eyes.

“What’s this?”

“Breakfast,” Richie replies simply. “Y’all eat that over in D.C. right?”

Eddie scoffs, “Yes, actually I do happen to eat breakfast, thank you for your oh-so enlightening answer. Should I just take a bite right into the paper, then?”

Richie lets out a snort-giggle that makes him sound like a truffle hog on a hunt. He shakes the grease-coated wad again, threatening to drip oil directly onto Eddie’s keyboard. Eddie gingerly takes the object from the other man, their fingers brushing briefly. Eddie tells himself that the beating against his chest is just because he’s worried about the possibility of an oil-logged laptop. 

He carefully unwraps the wax paper to uncover a breakfast sandwich, eggs, ham, and a Kraft single cradled between two soggy English muffins, slathered in butter. He stares at the lump of carbs, cheese, and wax paper tucked cautiously between his index fingers and thumbs, the cheap food feeling wholly unfamiliar to him and a feeling of total isolation washes over him as he realises that this is not a normal reaction to being presented with an egg Mcmuffin. He expects Richie to chuckle again, or to make some low-hanging jibe at how obtuse he’s being, but when he glances at the other man all he sees is that same, soft smile he was wearing when he first walked into the office. It makes him want to be as earnest and open as Richie.

“I’ve never--erm, I’ve never had--before. It’s not very healthy, so--” Eddie trails off, shifting his eyes between the sandwich and a point  _ just _ to the right of Richie’s head.

“It’s cool. Just loosen up, man. It’s a sandwich.” Suddenly, Richie raises his eyebrows with an  _ oh!  _ And he sets a takeaway cup of coffee onto Eddie’s desk.

“Almost forgot this.”

He bares his slightly crooked teeth in a wide grin, before turning out the door towards his own office, a meek “thanks” from Eddie chasing his heels.

Eddie stares back down at the sandwich. Then he stares some more. He tells himself that his trepidation comes from the concern that this food is chock-full of preservatives and the cheese alone probably has a 90% plastic content. The sweat gathering in the creases of his palm definitely isn’t because of the kind gesture or the fond smile that had been cast his way. He’s always been weird about food, after all.

He takes a bite. Then another. The sandwich is lukewarm at this point, the cheese having coagulated into a salty lump. And yet, as he swallows he feels a warmth travelling into his gut and spreading, coiling around his intestines and ribs and he finds himself smiling at the pure indulgence of eating shitty food. It feels like rebellion.

By the time he’s finished his sandwich and goes to take a sip of the coffee, he finds it cold. Drink in hand, he walks towards the rec room at the western wing of the building, placing the coffee-sans-lid in the microwave for exactly one minute and twenty-five seconds before scurrying away to the corner of the room.  He still isn’t sure if you can be harmed by radio waves from a household microwave but at this point his excessive caution is a habit too deeply-ingrained to break. 

Through the speckled window on the microwave he watches his coffee spin make yellow-tinged rotations, spinning to the steady hum of the microwave motor. Then, something catches his eye, but before he has a chance to look closer the cup has already travelled 100 degrees past his eyeline. He inches closer, still wary not to get his face too close to the microwave lest the radiation give him a brain tumour. When the cup makes its way back to the window he sees it: a fucking dick drawn on the wall of the cup, perfectly positioned to look like the drinker was sucking on its head. 

“You are fucking shitting me, huh.” 

Because of course Richie is literally twelve years old and only doing nice things like feeding him breakfast and casting him kind smiles as a joke.

He hits the button on the microwave to pop open the door and retrieve his coffee, ready to stomp his way to Richie’s office and dump the cup’s contents over the man’s greasy head. He makes it about five steps before his mind catches up to the fact that the cup is now scalding hot, and he has to set it down on a nearby table, shaking his fingers vigorously. Mid-shake, with his hand poised above his shoulder, he hears the station door slam open and someone speed-walking across the hall, calling out to Richie.

“Rich, you need to look at this right fucking  _ now _ .”

The urgency in the man’s tone draws Eddie in, and while he knows it is wholly unprofessional to eavesdrop, he finds himself inching closer to Richie’s door. 

“Stan the Man! Shabbat shalom.” He can hear the smile in Richie’s voice; absently, he wonders if Richie is giving this “Stan” the same soft smile he granted Eddie with this morning.

“It’s Tuesday, Rich.” Stan huffs out his response like he’s just exhaled years of asbestos buildup from his lungs. Maybe that’s just what knowing Richie is like. “I don’t have time for your bullshit, because if I’m being honest I’m a little—no, a lot—freaked and I need someone else to see this before I lose my mind.”

A light shuffle emits from the cracked open door as Richie shuffles closer to Stan. Eddie hears the tell-tale wobble of a picture being passed, probably from Stan to Richie.

“Your colonoscopy results finally came in, huh?” The quip is met with deafening silence. “Seriously man, what is this?”

Stan takes in a shaky breath. “The kid, the one you found by the uh—the stairs.” Stan’s voice drops off at the end of his sentence, like he can barely stomach the thought of speaking any louder. “They’re his autopsy photos.” Eddie feels like he’s been dunked beneath the surface of a pool, his mind reeling with too many thoughts of stairs and autopsy and fuck that means Richie’s looking at a picture of some guts—-a kid’s guts  _ Jesus Christ _ —-

“He’s—Rich, the kid was full of...  _ holes _ .” When Richie doesn’t say anything, Stan plows forward. “When I got him, he didn't have a scratch on him, you saw. When I went to cut him open I was expecting to find something in his stomach... but not this.” Stan sounds like uttering the mere three sentences has exhausted him

“Jesus, man. He looks like fuckin’… Swiss cheese.”

“Yeah,” is all Stan says in response.

There’s a long silence and Eddie realises that he should go back to his office but he’s too morbidly curious in a way that makes him want to be sick.

“Rich, I—“ Stan sounds choked up now, like the words are tumbling out of his lips without him even knowing. “I can’t do it Rich. Not with Patty here. And with the fucking baby on the way. This isn’t the first one and we both know it won’t be the last. I don’t know how to fucking cope, it’s not safe here Rich.” 

Stan takes another shuddering breath, and Richie shuffles ever closer.

_ “Is it ever gonna end?” _

The words make Eddie gag. He imagines himself as a kid, alone in the woods and feeling his intestines open up, oozing bile making him writhe in agony, until his last acidic breath dies on his lips, leaving him hollowed out and alone. He power walks to the bathroom, knees slamming against the dirty tiles as he empties the contents of his stomach, feeling slight regret as he washes Richie’s kind gesture down the drain. His lungs expand. In-out. Once, twice, three times before he can bring himself to open his eyes. The bathroom tiles, once white, are now yellow tinged and damp looking. It’s a health hazard and he’s probably going to get typhoid but he can’t bring himself to leave the stall. He feels like a kid, tucked under the blankets at night, waiting; if he doesn’t take off the covers, if he doesn’t unlock the door, the monsters can’t get him. He’s trapped, suffocated by the tiny stall while craving, needing its protection from whatever awaits him if he slides open the crooked metal lock. The outside world feels like it’s fallen away and he’s alone, in this grubby bathroom stall and he’ll never pluck up the courage to unlock the door.

Eventually,  he does.

\--- 

When Eddie looks down, his fingers are poised above his keyboard, twitching subtly. On his screen, a blinking cursor taunts him, but his mind can’t manifest a single thought. He changes windows. Without thinking too hard he types:  _ missing kids neibolt park  _ into the search bar. He scrolls through a plethora of articles, the top results dating back to only a  _ month _ ago —- “Boy lost during berry-picking trip still not found” and “Girl, 12, found miles from campsite, impaled.” Eddie clicks the link. He reads the article. He looks over it again, takes note of the family name, the location, and date. Switching tabs again, he pulls up the National Archive website, entering his login details before filtering through the coroners’ reports until he finds:  _ Nakamura, Neibolt County, May 26, 2019 _ . He opens the report, looks through the description of the injuries, reads over them twice before slowly bringing the scroll bar to the bottom of the document where he knows the crime scene photos await him.

The scroll bar hits the bottom of the window. He stares at the picture. He sees the ravine he and Richie walked past yesterday, the crops of bristly ox tongue, and a tree, jutting out of the ground framed by stones and a pool of deep red liquid, like morning dew on the leaves of the crabgrass. He follows the grain of the wood, up, up, up until he sees a body, torn skin and broken ribs and tissue wrapped around the trunk of the fallen tree. But it’s not the body of a girl he sees. It’s himself.

Head lolled back at an unnatural angle, skin sallow gray, sunken-in cheeks and abdomen bloated with rot. The tree jutting out of the cavern in his chest like a claw, his lungs, burst balloons leaking out of his chest cavity and draped across the branches of the tree. 

He scrolls back up. His eyes scan over the report again.

> **_EXTERNAL EXAMINATION_ **
> 
> **_The body [KASPBRAK, Edward] is that of a 36 year old, white male of average height and build, well developed and well nourished. The patient died of impalement to the thoracic cavity, resulting in pneumothorax, as well as fractured ribs. The patient was found three days post-mortem by [TOZIER, Richard.] Three days. Because no one was looking for a_ ** **_worthless waste of space like you_ ** **_. Mommy warned you about getting hurt. Mommy told you that you weren’t strong enough to play with the other kids and now look at you. Glass ribs cracked open and paper lantern heart filled with leaves and maggots. The other kids don’t want to play with a dirty dead boy. Richie doesn’t want to play with you now. You’re all alone. You’re going to hell and mommy’s gonna hit you because you’ve been a bad boy and you didn’t listen and now you’re cold and alone and no one wants to play with you, dirty little boy._ **

Eddie closes his laptop.

When he  steps over the threshold of the station door he takes a deep gulp of air, quickly coughing it back out as his lungs fill with smoke. He turns to see Richie, his lips wrapped around the tail end of a dying cigarette. 

“Howdy, Eddie-Spaghetti.” He grins, knowing he’s pushing your buttons. Eddie simply grunts in derision, muttering “That’s not my fucking name.”

He carries on, determined to rile him up. “What’s up buddy, tired of jerking off to soil samples already?”

“Actually,” Eddie casts the other man a sidelong glance, “I’m more of an air quality guy. NO 2 levels below 24.3 miligrams really get me soaking wet.” Eddie narrows his eyes, dropping his voice to a breathy whisper as he finishes his sentence.

Richie coughs out a chuckle clouded with smoke, his eyes widening before he allows himself to let out a full-bellied laugh, eyes crinkling at the sides against pink-tinged cheeks. Eddie feels like his cheeks must be just as ruddy and he wraps an arm around his chest. Richie lays a big, gentle hand on his shoulder and he tries to make his response flinch as discreet as possible. He doesn’t succeed, but it seems like Richie cares little, simply removing his hand. Despite his pained reaction, Eddie finds himself missing the warmth.

“Some friends and I are gonna get drinks tonight down at The Hungry Dog, they’re all dying to meet the  “plucky young EPO” so I thought I’d bring you along? We can ride together.”

He feels like a freshman in high school, creeping around the perimeter of the cafeteria not knowing where to sit or what to do with his hands. He’s not used to his co-workers inviting him out for drinks and that’s how he likes it. If he makes himself uptight and unwelcoming enough he won’t have to face their rejection because he’s beaten them to it.

“It’s cool if not, y’know,” but it doesn’t look cool, if Richie’s downcast eyes are anything to go by. For some reason, Eddie can’t stand the thought of the other man being disappointed, and in  _ him _ no less. 

“No, I’ll go. It could be fun.” Eddie hopes he sounds more confident than he feels.

“Fun?” Richie quirks an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you guys knew about fun all the way over in D.C.”

“We don’t,” Eddie retorts. “But we’re not in D.C.”

Richie gives him a thousand-watt smile. “No sir. We ride at dusk, m’lady.” With that, Richie stubs out the now useless filter against the side of the ranger station before dropping it against the porch. Eddie looks at him incredulously, before the other man retrieves his litter and shoves it in his pocket, scuttling inside with a “Jeez alright, don’t bite my head off!”

Eddie smirks despite himself.

\---

Eddie’s pretty sure that he’s sweating through his button up. A grown man should not be scared to go out for drinks with his colleagues, and yet, here he is, hands shaking and sweat gathering above his brow as he tunes his ears to the sound of Richie’s tell-tale footsteps approaching his office. He must really be maligned to be having a fucking panic attack over drinks-with-friends. But that’s one for the therapist. 

At exactly 7:32 pm—because Eddie may have been watching the clock, waiting—Richie bounds into his office, clearly thrumming with excess energy. 

“C’mon Eddie-Spaghetti! Time to get turnt, as the kids say.”

“One, that’s not my name. Two, if the kids  _ are _ saying that,  _ you _ definitely should not be.”

“I’m young at heart, Eds.” Richie shoots him a quick wink and a crooked smile over his shoulder as they make their way to the parking lot. Eddie’s heart resolutely does  _ not _ flutter at the wink. It’s just nerves. As if that’s not bad enough.

Richie stops them when they reach a Subaru hatchback, straight out of the 90’s. Richie scoots past Eddie and opens the door for him with a flourish of his arm and a “Madam” uttered in a bastardised Michael Caine accent. As Eddie climbs into the passenger seat he realises that the trash laying beneath the seat is also, apparently, straight out of the 90’s.

“Don’t you ever clean your car? I think this napkin has been mummified.”

Richie plucks the offending napkin from beneath Eddie’s feet and tosses it in the back seat. 

“Aw, you mad I didn’t clean up all pretty for you, Eddie baby?”

Eddie huffs and crosses his arms, hoping that his heart didn’t look like it beat out of his chest like a fucking cartoon, because it certainly felt that way.

Instead, he scoffs “I don’t think you could clean up pretty if you got sent through a carwash.”

Richie just barks out a laugh and puts the car into reverse, as Elton Motello croons through the radio speakers. 

\---

The Hungry Dog is as run down and tacky as Eddie expected, blinking neon sign calling out like a beacon to country hicks and hungry truckers and all species of rural Oregonian trash. There’s a vintage car parked out front like a wannabe Ruby Tuesday’s and a faded sign that reads “Wish You Were Beer”� because they’re just  _ that _ funny.

It’s the only diner within a five mile radius of the park, cradled in the junction of the interstate 97 and the 138 Scenic Byway. As they push their way through the swinging doors, Eddie takes in the decor: kitschy posters on the wall of white guys doing that pose where they hold up the fish and photos of celebrities that Eddie is sure have never come close to setting foot in this dump. Despite it all, Eddie finds that the place has a warm, homely feel; the patrons are all talking, mingling together in a blur of laughter and beer-smell and Yo La Tengo.

Richie leads him straight towards the back of the diner, where there are already five people crammed into a red vinyl booth. One of the patrons notices them, and says something to the rest of the group making them turn around. Eddie feels like a deer, trapped in their headlights. The one on the edge of the seat, a redheaded woman he can hardly make out the face of, steps toward them before drawing Richie into a tight hug by the fleece lapels of his denim jacket. The five scooch over, bunching up even closer to make room for Richie and Eddie, who ends up being pressed between the redhead and Richie’s broad shoulders, feeling small. Over the soundtrack of the bar, Eddie barely hears Richie call out his introductions.

“Eddie Spaghetti, this is Bev, Bill, Ben, Mike, and Stan—-“ he calls out the names rapid-fire like an auctioneer. “Bev, Bill, Ben, Mike, and Stan, this is Eddie Spaghetti.” Richie holds his hands up as best he can in the tight space, framing Eddie’s face like he’s showing off a faberge egg. 

“It’s just Eddie, thanks.” He offers them all a tight-lipped smile. He’s briefly overwhelmed when all five of them call out various greetings, each one as warm and welcoming as the last.

“How ya liking the job so far, Eddie?” Bill, he thinks, asks him punctuated by a sip of his beer.

“It’s important work,” Eddie says, not quite sure how to respond to the question, Bill’s sweet tone making the question seem too personal. “I’m very thankful to get the opportunity to work in such a beautiful place.” Though he feels awkward, the group hums in agreement, sharing small smiles between themselves.

Bev leans into him conspiratorially. “See anything spooky?”, she wiggles her eyebrows. Across the table, Stan huffs out a humourless laugh while the others just grin expectantly.

“Yeah,” pipes up Ben, “you see Bigfoot yet, or what?”

Eddie takes on a bored expression. “Yes,” he responds flatly, eyes shifting towards Richie. “He’s sitting right next to me in fact.” 

“Eds gets off on a good one,” Richie crows as the other group members chuckle, and Stan sends him a fond smile from across the table.

The conversation flows naturally from there-- with discussion topics ranging from who would win in a Godzilla vs. kaiju fight (Richie chimes in with 'they're in LOVE') to the upcoming long-distance trip that the rangers had planned-- though Eddie takes up his usual post as observer in the discussion; this is his natural habitat, comfortable and safe in the shelter of listening but not partaking in conversations. But while he usually feels like an outsider, relegated to the role of listen-but-don’t-talk-and-don’t-touch, he feels inexplicably comfortable with Richie and his friends, happy to listen to them swap stories and jokes with the confidence of childhood friends. He feels privileged to watch their words dance around each other. 

He learns that Bev—an EMT—and Ben—a firefighter-are in the sappiest, most love-struck relationship he’s ever witnessed, and that Bill and Mike  _ are _ in fact a power couple—an SAR and firefighter respectively. They’re, as Richie said, “super jacked.” Stan, who Eddie realises with a shred of trepidation, is the man who visited Richie earlier today, and is a coroner for the Neibolt County sheriff's office. Eddie almost wants to ask about the autopsy he had just performed, but Stan quickly skims over his job, instead opting to talk about his lovely wife, Patty, and the baby the couple are expecting—a statement to which everyone coos despite it being old news by now.

The whole time, Richie’s shoulder is pressed against Eddie’s own, one of his large, calloused hands resting next to Eddie’s between their twin glasses of beer and water. 

About an hour into the night, when Eddie finally decides to switch to beer, he finds himself itching to move his hand closer to Richie’s; he twitches his fingers several times, feeling a buzz of electricity run through his arm as his fingertips move fractionally closer to the back of Richie’s hand. 

About two hours into the night, Richie leans his shoulder even closer to Eddie’s, and he feels their thighs press together. Eddie tells himself it’s just because there’s little space in the booth, that Richie has no choice.

About three hours into the night, someone orders a round of shots, and all hell breaks loose. Eddie feels his head go all fuzzy, like someone’s shoved dandelions in his eyes and cattails in his ears. He watches Richie lean down, wrapping his lips around the shot glass in front of him before throwing his head back and downing the amaretto-and-cream. The rest of the group cheers him on but Eddie’s eyes are trained to a stray drop of liquor, dripping out of the corner of Richie’s mouth all slow and sweet, trailing down his chin and over the bump of his jaw bone. He’s so close, Eddie realises, close enough that Eddie can smell the Irish cream, can feel the heat and sweat radiating off of the warm, solid body beside his own. Maybe he’s close enough to clean Richie up, to trail his tongue up the crutch of his neck, over his sharp jawline to press his lips to the corner of Richie’s mouth, liquor and honey-rich-sweat pooling on his tongue.

Eddie blinks rapidly. He has no idea where the thought came from and suddenly he’s fervently, inexplicably afraid. He clumsily excuses himself to the restroom, pushing through the crowd of sweaty bar-patrons and it’s all  _ too much, too hot _ . He bursts through the door of the restroom, leaning over the sink and clutching the edge of the porcelain basin, taking in several gulping breaths of air before fumbling around his jacket pocket for his inhaler.

He takes two quick puffs, holding his breath, cheeks puffed out as he looks at himself in the mirror. He looks like shit—dishevelled and sweaty, cheeks ruddy with alcohol and shame and doe-eyes blown wide like he’s done a bump of coke and seen God. Maybe he has. He thinks of Richie, when he gets sick of looking at himself. He thinks of the man’s expanse of a chest, his strong jawline and even stronger arms; he thinks of the scruff on his chin and his thick, untrimmed eyebrows and his bright, maple-brown bat eyes behind their thick lenses. He thinks Richie is gross, but he likes it. Which is so unlike him because he hates germs but he thinks about Richie and realises that seeing the other man out on the trail yesterday, sweaty and dust-coated, like a lighthouse in a sea of lodgepoles and sweet clover must have awakened something in him. He doesn’t know if he wanted that  _ thing _ to go back to sleep. He’s just drunk. It doesn’t mean a damn thing. He splashes water on himself and takes one, two, three steadying breaths before heading back out into the belly of the bar.

The group immediately shifts to make space for him when he returns. As he sits down, Richie looks at him all cow eyes and jam-and-butter lips, asking him if he’s okay.

“Yeah, I—” Eddie tries to smile. “I’m fine.”

Richie throws a heavy arm over his shoulder. “Course ya are.”

Eddie struggles to respond but he doesn’t have to, because soon the opening chords of Madonna’s Like a Prayer are coming on, over the jukebox and Richie’s face lights up like a Christmas tree. He shoots his gaze over to Stan, who’s pretending to look exasperated. 

“Stan. Stan holy shit come on we gotta dance man.” Richie is suddenly clambering over Eddie’s lap to pull Stan up, dragging him towards the centre of the bar where people are bopping along to the music. “Guys come on, this song is a fuckin’ jam lets  _ dance _ like we’re young and gay instead of just gay.”

The statement catches Eddie off guard and he has no idea how to process it; he looks around at the others but they’re simply chuckling in amusement, obviously not as startled as Eddie by the casualness with which Richie threw out the last sentence. He watches as Mike pulls Bill out by the hand, trailing behind Richie and Stan. He’s left with Bev and Ben, who are now sidling up to him despite the excess space on the seat.

“You doin’ okay, hon?” Bev tilts her head toward him, but keeps a small distance, as if she knows he’s scared by the proximity. Eddie simply nods in response, looking down at the table before turning to look between her and Ben. This time, he nods resolutely, offering up a timid smile. Bev and Ben share an endeared look over his head before they’re each grabbing one of his hands.

“C’mon Eddie, let’s go dance, huh?” She pauses, giving him an out, a chance to say no. But he’s already drunk, so instead he says:

“Fuck it.”

The trio make their way to where Stan, Bill, and Mike are bouncing subtly to the music while Richie dances, completely unabashedly despite the fact that they’re in a diner at 12 am and they’re playing the Shangri-La’s for god’s sake. Even in the muggy, salty air, Eddie feels his chest swell with joy. He watches Richie as the man shakes his head from side to side, somehow managing to keep his glasses intact, though somewhat askew. It feels like he’s looking at an old photograph, something balmy and homely and nostalgic about this sight in front of him despite this being a wholly new experience. He feels like he’s just sunken into someone else’s memory of a hot summer day spent being loved and loving in return; he knows this is someone else’s memory because he’s never felt this way but he leans into it anyway, letting the thick amber patchwork of nostalgia wrap around him. Richie looks softened out and fuzzy bathed in the yellow-toned lights of the bar. Eddie feels warm all over.

\---

Richie drives him home that night, assuring him that he’s sober enough to drive while Eddie is clearly not-- _ fuckin’ lightweight,  _ Richie shoves at his shoulder. He almost feels embarrassed revealing his lonely dwelling to Richie, who’s clearly surrounded by love. But Richie doesn’t seem to care. He simply plucks Eddie’s phone from his limp fingers, entering his own number “in case of emergencies” before clambering into the driver’s seat, leaving him with a soft “Goodnight, Eds.”

That night, Eddie dreams of steamed milk and honey and bees buzzing around his chest.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who let me put so many music references in this chapter ??? check out this playlist for more sad yeehaw music : https://spoti.fi/2DXAauA


	4. animals feed: man eats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From where he stands, Eddie can just see the rise of Richie’s uniform shirt as he lifts his arms, revealing the soft flesh along the waist of his pants, the belt digging in slightly to make his stomach roll at where a trail of hair starts its way down his lower stomach. A flash of olive green linen draws the curtains on Eddie’s view and, looking up, he gets caught in Richie’s gaze, the other man looking at him with a wide-eyed look. Eddie feels like he’s been caught out, and for a moment he panics thinking, absurdly, that he’s going to be in trouble. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello all. yes, I haven't updated in a month and im sorry !!! but I yam back with another chapter so pls enjoy :-)  
> if there are any typos I'm rly sorry but I've somehow delved even deeper into illiteracy

Eddie wakes up with a pain in his stomach. The familiar pang of hunger and residual coffee-related acidity stinging his chest. Or is it nerves? Pushing aside the growing feeling hunger-coffee-nervousness-no-really-it’s-just-hunger-dont-panic, Eddie rises to his feet, attempting to shake free from the tendrils of last night’s dream, still curling around his ankles like weeds. He doesn’t remember what happened, he doesn’t remember if anything did happen. He just remembers the feeling of hunger. He pushes it all aside, picks the feeling up like a used tissue and drops it into a box, closes the lid. Just another thing he’s not going to think about it. The feeling will just sit there, resting atop ‘Memories of Childhood’ and right next to ‘Richie Tozier.’ And  _ aha _ , now he finds the source of his nervousness--and yes, it’s definitely nervousness as he now sees. Because Richie was barely tolerable when they crossed paths at the station. But now that he has to spend over 24 hours with the man, at a campsite, in the same tent…

And with what happened last night at the bar. Or rather, what he felt last night. What he did, with the drinking and the looking and the yearning. He just might not make it back in one piece. Of course,  _ of course _ it’s more convenient that the rangers and SARs coincide their belaying practice with his own high-elevation air density measurement collection. But it’s not convenient for his feelings, and really, selfishly, he thinks his gay panic is just a bit more important than organizational convenience. Is that so wrong? He ponders this question, going back and forth with himself, for the entirety of the drive to the park. When he finally pulls into the dirt lot, far too early for anyone to be present, he still hasn’t found an answer. He goes inside.

\---

Stepping out, Eddie sees Richie, Ben, and Bill waiting by the Subaru, Bill grumbling as Rihie and Ben lean their elbows against his shoulders, ribbing him gently about his height. As much as Eddie was looking forward to finally undertaking some real fieldwork and despite how eager he is--how eager he’s always been--to prove himself, he can’t help the wave of trepidation that washes over him as the weight of his camping bag presses into the divot of his shoulder. It’s a hell of a way up to the campsite, and it’s just the four of them. Aside from the inevitable fact that he will have to make small talk for much of the excursion’s duration--which is daunting enough--there’s a deeper sense of dread that’s niggling at the back of his mind, a misplaced unease that no amount of gentle teasing from Ben or brash jokes from Richie can alleviate as they pile into the car and set out on the road-bound portion of the journey.

Eddie sits shotgun, tucking his arms against his sides as Richie’s thick forearm monopolizes the center console, his opposite wrist propped up against the top of the wheel, steering haphazardly around the never-ending corners of the mountain side. 

“Tozier, you ever heard of 10 and 2 o’clock? You got 12 and jack shit.” 

“Hey, rightie’s off the clock, alright? He’s all tuckered out from last night,” Richie casts a salacious grin towards the rearview mirror. “Anyways, Eds”--Eddie grumbles something about that _ not being his name _ \-- this position gives me the added benefit of looking cool.” 

Richie lifts his hand to lap at his pointer and pinky finger, using the now-slick digits to smooth across his eyebrows as he sends a mock-sultry gaze across the glove box. 

“Hey, eyes on the--” the right wheel of the car narrowly misses the flimsy wooden boundary of the road as they veer left, “eyes on the fucking road, holy hell!” 

Bill leans between the front seats, stretching his seatbelt to the very end and making Eddie roll his eyes at everyone’s flagrant disregard for road safety. “C’mon Rich, let up a little, you’re giving Eddie an aneurysm.” 

“Bill,” Eddie fixes him with a sidelong glare. “To think I used to respect you the most. I see now that I have to move Ben up to the position of ‘favorite.’” 

Bill cackles while Ben beams from the backseat and Richie exclaims “I wasn’t your favorite?”

They pull over about halfway up the hill, tires crunching against the gravel adjacent to a trail leading up the mountain. Eddie steps out and stops, door ajar making the console ping, just staring as Richie steps out. From across the roof of the car, Eddie watches as the other man unfurls to his full height, raising his arms above his head in an exaggerated stretch. From where he stands, Eddie can just see the rise of Richie’s uniform shirt as he lifts his arms, revealing the soft flesh along the waist of his pants, the belt digging in slightly to make his stomach roll at where a trail of hair starts its way down his lower stomach. A flash of olive green linen draws the curtains on Eddie’s view and, looking up, he gets caught in Richie’s gaze, the other man looking at him with a wide-eyed look. Eddie feels like he’s been caught out, and for a moment he panics thinking, absurdly, that he’s going to be in trouble. 

The spell is broken when he hears a barking laugh coming from the head of the trail.  He and Richie make their way over to where the other two men stand, shoulders vibrating with laughter as they look at a sign in front of them. 

Eddie finds himself chuckling as he regards the vandalized sign; from behind him, Richie makes an affronted noise, spluttering a bit as he says:

“‘Pee pee creek,’ that’s not even clever. And crossing out the ‘e’ in Butte Falls isn’t exactly refined comedy either.”

The more Richie gets worked up, the harder Eddie finds himself laughing--and isn’t irony a funny thing?

From beside him, he hears Ben choke out, “Really Rich? I thought this humor would be right up your alley.”

Richie merely scoffs, and the four of them stand, admiring the handiwork whichever nefarious twelve year-old decided to use the park map as the canvas for his masterful comedic endeavour. And Eddie isn’t the type to find immature humor amusing, he really isn’t, but when Richie belatedly huffs out a “I do  _ not _ fucking work at Poo Poo Point” Eddie finds himself nearly crying, unable to stop the laughter from bubbling up and spilling out until he’s gasping for breath, wondering half-heartedly if he should pull out his inhaler.

“Yeah, yeah. Yuk it up, assholes.”

Richie starts off on the trail, and Eddie shares a look with Ben and Bill. They smile at him, vestigial mirth still in their eyes, warm and comforting like Thanksgiving leftovers. It takes 15 minutes for Eddie to realize how much his cheeks hurt.

They trudge up the trail, single file like a line of ants compared to the towering canopy. Eddie looks above and around him, and for the millionth time he feels infinitely small, like the vastness of the forest around him casts ripples back onto him, reverberating through his bones until they’re ringed like an aged tree stump. The forest, now, feels thrumming with energy, with the sunlight streaming through the canopy, the brush of fern fronds together as they stretch along the trail, a generous covering for the sun-warmed earth. There’s a buzzing in the air, a tickle in his ear drums like VHS static. It’s as if there’s something within him that the trees can feel and they chatter to it.

This is, of course, in addition to the usual chatter that follows Richie wherever he goes. Currently, Richie and Bill are relaying to Ben a story of a man lost in the park, ‘off his ass’ on PCP and trying to rip a tree out of the ground. With every other word, Richie turns back to look at Eddie, an expectant smile on his face like he’s checking to make sure Eddie’s laughing at his wisecracks.

Eddie tries to smile back, but when he finally pulls his lips taught, no one is looking.

Eddie is struck with a pang of jealousy--a feeling he had grown far too familiar with as a child--for the way Richie reaches out to Bill and Ben, both with his words and his touch; how simple it appears for him to curl his fingers around bill’s shoulders or give a gentle pat to Ben’s ass after making a quip about  _ just how gosh darn handsome _ the other man is. He’s jealous of how simple it all is, jealous of how everyone else’s brain doesn’t short circuit when they come in close contact with others, when they’re faced with the prospect of conversation deeper than surface level. Because, really, he doesn’t lack intuition, he’s  _ good _ at talking to people. Or rather, he’s good at people talking to him. He’s just so used to hiding, he’s forgotten what it is to share himself with others.

And he’s jealous that Bill and Ben, with all their normalcy, are on the receiving end of Richie’s actions. That one might just hurt the worst of all.

His boot soles press into the dirt below him and for a moment he wonders if the plush earth will open its arms and let him sink into the forgiving debris beneath his feet. The next step he takes, he notices his foot sinks into the ground just a bit deeper than his other steps, the dirt and fallen pine needles dipping to accommodate his footfall, he almost thinks he’s actually going to be pulled in, he feels like the step he takes is infinite and briefly he thinks back on the flash of a cartoon he saw as a boy, a caricature taking a confident stride directly into quicksand; his mother had quickly switched the channel, muttering something about  _ brain rot _ . Maybe if she had let him watch, he would know what to do with this sinking feeling.

\---

It’s only after three hours of setting up camp, Richie goofing off, and re-setting up camp because someone knocked one of the tents over do they realize they forgot the fucking lanterns.

“I thought you said you had the lanterns.”

“No,” Bill crosses his arms, “I said, ‘got the lanterns’ with like, a question mark at the end.”

“Oh well sorry Bill, I didn’t see the question mark at the end of your verbal sentence, my mistake.”

Ben interrupts Bill and Richie’s now-playful tiff before it can escalate. “Rich, can you get the lanterns. That’s with a question mark, by the way.”

Bill chuckles while Richie scoffs, before saying, “Well, c’mon Eddie Spaghetti, let's head out. Brave the wilderness. Traverse the unexplored, where no man has gone before.” 

Eddie, not looking up from where he’s examining a pile of rocks mumbles, “that’s not my name,” before doing a double take and looking back up at the other man. “Why do I have to go with you? There’s literally only one trail, don’t tell me that’s too hard for you.”

Despite his protestations, Eddie stands, wiping the dust from his hands with a tissue, and makes his way towards Richie.

“But what if I get lost in the woods,” Richie warbles with an exaggerated pout. “I need a big, strong man to help me.” Richie pauses for a minute before amending, “or a small, hot-headed man to scare the monsters away.”

“Hey,” Eddie stomps up to Richie, pausing as his eyeline makes contact with Richie’s chin, before looking up and god he’s tall. “I’m not small. 5 foot 9 is a very normal height for the average American man, thank you very much.”

“Oh yeah, of course,” Richie pauses, pointer finger resting on his bottom lip. “Oh, nevermind, for a second I thought you were talking about the average Loompaland man, my bad.” With that, Richie reaches out a hand and ruffles eddie’s hair, making him shrug away and chop his hand through the air, talking about _ ⅔’s of American men being 5’9” _ and  _ not everybody is a fucking giant _ .

\---

It takes some extra time getting the lanterns, because of course it does, and when the pair finally make their way back up the trail, the blue sky is fading to a dusky purple, the faint shadow of the moon peeking out from behind the northernmost mountain ridge.

The trees that were magnificent in the sunshine now tower over them as they step across the border between the seen and unseen. Under the canopy, the night felt even closer, more oppressive. Even the soft susurration of the branches felt heavy in the ears. The loam in the earth and the decomposing leaves made the atmosphere close and thick. The blackness nurtured a sense of claustrophobia inside Eddie, even though the woodland stretched unbroken for miles. The narrow path, which was made uneven by the knotted roots that crossed it, branched at intervals. Richie was uncharacteristically quiet as they started up the path. While Eddie once might have appreciated the silence from his colleague, he found the lack of chatter disconcerting. A small cough left Eddie’s parted lips and echoed through the trees, made even louder by the silence of the twilight woods and the sheer awkwardness of the gesture. 

“So,” Eddie’s mouth drew into a grimace, “You like, nature?” For fuck’s sake.

“Yeah, I mean, nature’s cool,” Richie laughs, but it’s only half teasing. Eddie might even stretch to say it was affectionate. 

“Yeah, it’s uh, cool.” And fuck, Eddie knew he wasn’t very good at small talk but this must be a new low. He should stick to collecting moss.

And yet. Richie seems unfazed by Eddie’s inability to form a coherent sentence, instead offering up another endeared chuckle and putting on a haughty English accent. “An understanding of the natural world and what's in it is a source of not only a great curiosity but great fulfillment.” He punctuates the sentence with a conclusive  _ sniff _ , holding one finger parallel to his face, like a professor in a lecture hall of half-listening pines.

“Was--was that supposed to be Sir David Attenborough?”

“Oh my god, I should’ve known you’d like Planet Earth, you’re a little nerd, huh? I bet you had a fanny pack as a kid, right? It was the eighties, oh, baby tell me you had a fanny pack!” Richie lets out a full bellied laugh, and Eddie finds himself blushing despite the fact that it’s  _ perfectly normal for an environmentalist to like nature documentaries, thank you.  _ Richie barrels forward, “And you even called him Sir, God, Eds, you are so cute, cute, cute, aren’t ya?”

Richie reaches over and takes Eddie’s cheek between his fingers, the other man batting him away and grumbling. But he still feels his skin flush pink under the other man’s long fingers and he hopes to God that the warmth of his cheeks doesn;t radiate through Richie’s calloused fingertips. The hand retreats, leaving a sore patch of skin in its wake.

“Well now that I’ve revealed my foray into environmentalism as a loosely veiled ploy to get into Sir Attenborough’s pants, what’s your reason for being such a big ol’ nerd?”

Rubbing at his still bruised and rose-tinted cheek, Eddie responds: “I was a good science student in high school, got a scholarship and all that. It was the logical choice.” He doesn’t mention the desperation to get away from the stifling walls of his mother’s house, the need to pull free of the tendrils of old carpet and emotional manipulation that had held him inside for over a decade. Of course his choice was completely rational.

“Certainly, Mr. Spock.” Richie schools his face into the most neutral expression he can muster, though he ends up looking like he's holding in his third cough of the night at an HOA meeting. Startling even himself, Eddie chuckles. 

“I was--I won a science olympiad for biology and, I was going to be a doctor but, I have a, a thing with germs.” Eddie’s shoulder raises up in a half shrug, uncharacteristically expressive. Richie thinks back to Eddie’s first day, the snap of the latex against the man’s wrist. “But I was good at biology, and I like nature, it’s--” Eddie trails off, unsure. 

“It’s… ‘cool.’” Richie suggests.

“Yeah.” It comes out as a breathy chuckle. “And, I got a scholarship to study Environmental Sciences and it was--I mean, it was a way to get away from that house and do something that I was really  _ good _ at, so of course I took it.” Eddie realizes that he’s said  _ a lot _ . “It was the logical choice.” But the statement is lame and loosely tacked on. Richie isn’t gonna fall for that.

Something about the way Eddie says ‘ _ that house _ ’ makes Richie look startled, and he turns towards Eddie in an aborted shake.

Eddie can’t tell if Richie wanted to hear all that, if the other man had driven the conversation deeper, to something more profound, or if Eddie had shoehorned the topic in himself, desperate for some form of release for those finely aged pent up frustrations. And of course Eddie said too much, the one time he chooses to be open and honest, he runs his mouth and says too much. Too much for Richie, too much for himself.

“Sorry, I--I didn’t mean to ramble.” He wants to apologize, because that’s polite, that’s good. But he desperately doesn’t want any questions about his house. Because that leads to questions about his mom. 

With a small smile playing on his lips, Richie turns, his movements smoother than the shaky, trepid look he gave him moments earlier. “Nah, you’re nothing compared to me. They don’t call me trashmouth for nothing.”

Eddie frowns, “I haven’t heard a single person call you that.”

“Well,” Richie lays an arm across his shoulder. “That’s ‘cause you haven’t met any of my ex boyfriends.”

Eddie walks the rest of the trail weighed down by the phantom press of Richie’s arm over his shoulders. 

When they emerge from the swath of trees, Bill is beginning to brew some coffee with Ben chops wood. Richie mimes fanning himself, and puts on his best Southern Belle accent, drawling “My, my Mr. Hanscome, or should I say,  _ Handsome _ . Miss Marsh is one lucky lady, I do say.”

The fire snaps at the tips of their boots as they encircle the pit, shared conversation growing warmer as it crosses over the threshold of the campfire. Eddie turns his face from the lick of the heat to look across the millpond. Following the ripples of water as they retreat from the shoreline, he tracks the tide out to the midstream, to the opposite shoreline, stretching murkily into a parallel forest-- the hills that lie friendly in the day are darkly ominous by night, and the paths that were illuminated just hours before are now lost in a blackness that even moonlight cannot lift.  Pine fronds turn to craggy peaks, reaching up to caress the moon’s full, porcelain cheeks. 

But the globe's gaze isn’t the only one Eddie feels upon his being. On the shoreline, still noticeable amid the silhouetted features of the mountains as if absorbing all light is a figure; impossibly tall at such a distance. He feels its stare hold him, like a hand gripping his chin, though it has no discernable features, he feels the intensity of its watch. He stares, lips parting and tongue darting out to flick at his teeth as the figure takes a step into the water, casting rivulets out towards Eddie; he thinks, irrationally, that the ripples will gather enough momentum to rise up, crashing over the bight and engulfing him until he’s ripped into the shroud of darkness on the other side of the lake. 

“Hey Eds,” a bright voice cuts through the blackness. 

Eddie whips his head around and is met with a burst of orange light and a swath of heat tickling his cheeks. He scrambles back a bit as an errant spark leaps for a loose hair on his fringe.Now, he sees Richie, outstretched arm presenting him with a skewer, on the end of which is a marshmallow, set aflame and oozing sticky, silken filling into the dirt below. 

“Shit! Rich can you put that out, we’re gonna get ants in the fucking tent now and--put it out!” 

Richie moves to put the still flaming marshmallow directly into his mouth, making Eddie lunge forward and blow against Richie’s face. The fire goes out, leaving them inches away from each other, each man trying to avoid looking at the other’s cheeks where they know they will find the same pink hue that adorns their own--now unable to blame it one the light of the flame. Drawing back, Eddie realizes that he and Richie are not alone, and he casts a nervous glance around the circumference of the fire, finding Bill stifling a laugh from behind his fingers and Ben giving him a sickly-sweet smile that he blinks away from. 

The flames eventually die down to restless embers, stray flecks jumping out, chasing the ankles of the four men as each heads off to bed.

Wrapped in the sweaty, silk embrace of his sleeping bag, Eddie dreams of the campfire, of Richie in front of him, parting his lips and letting orange peel flames curl out like a tongue. He inches closer to Eddie, jutting out his jaw until their lips meet and Eddie’s mouth fills with electric heat. He feels the velvet burn slink down his throat and inflame his stomach, igniting his tissues until his skin is crackling, his insides melting into gooey lava, seeping out of every pore. And when his innards have leaked out of every orifice, he is left hollow. His ribs left bare branches curled around the gully of his cavernous belly.

Eddie wakes; no shaking off the coils of sleepiness, no slow rise past the meniscus of consciousness. Only the bitter gnawing of hunger; radiating from his stomach until it feels like it’s consuming his entire body, making his skin tingle with  _ need _ . He stumbles out of the tent into the dusty light of early morning.

The others haven’t risen yet, the fire from last night having burnt down to charred woods. There is no life here. The sleeping campsite feels empty, hollow and lain bare in the rising sun like his intestines, barren and craving in the wake of consciousness. 

Stumbling forward, Eddie makes his way to the line of trees to the left of the campsite, guided only by his hunger, his  _ need _ . 

He was caught in a state of negative entropy, body awake and craving but his mind felt dull; he couldn’t figure out what to do, where to go. He needed to eat, needed to feel full.

Eddie looks around but nothing registers, he can see trees, dirt, grass, but it means nothing, everything looks like a foreign object and his mind short-circuits when he tries to figure out what to do with the objects in front of him. The clawing hunger comes back full force and he’s becoming overwhelmed by the gnawing in his stomach, the pain, the confusion. Sweat begins to pool above his brow, like he’s feverish.  _ Feed, a cold, starve a fever _ . Or is it the other way around. He just needs to eat something. He needs to eat something and then he’ll feel better. If he can just quell the emptiness, if he can fill himself then his head will stop spinning and he won’t be so lost, so small and weak like a stumbling fawn, head weighed down by the heady afterbirth of incognisance.

There’s a voice in his head, driving him forward, low and croaky like wood floors in an old house. And it’s telling him over and over again:  'it's okay, it's okay, you just need to find something to eat. Find something to eat and you'll be okay, just keep walking and find something to eat. Eat. Eat.' So he walks, feeling bottomless. He has no concept of time, only the gnawing in his stomach and the voice in his head.

He must walk for nearly an hour, the sun beginning its ascent over the ridge of mountains, caught in a fugue,, when Eddie suddenly realizes he has no idea where he is. He can’t remember when he left the campsite, or why. Can’t remember what he was looking for or if he was looking for anything.

The panic sets in.

Patting down his person, he notices that he hasn’t brought anything with him: no phone, no compass, no light. His palms begint to feel slippery, breaths becoming erratic and eyes stinging. He reaches into his pocket, but he hasn’t brought his inhaler either and now he’s sure he’s going to die out here and that’s  _ so _ unprofessional.

Squatting down and rocking back onto his heels, Eddie tries to calm his breaths, fingers curling around his collar to pull it away from his neck, his chest feeling overheated and stinging with panic. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, allowing himself a brief moment of self pity before he inevitably has to stand back up and find his way back to the campsite. But how? He has no way of knowing which direction to go towards, no memories of how he got here, and no understanding of the layout of this region. Fucking useless, he thinks to himself. He is weak. He is incapable of taking care of himself. He thinks of his mom telling him he’s weak, fragile. He thinks of his aunt telling him he’s useless. He thinks of the two rangers from several days ago, telling him he should watch out, calling him _ little boy _ . 

Somehow, this jogs him out of his panicked haze, anger suddenly over. He is not going to let his mother or his aunt or some lazy, greasy Oregonian hicks tell him what he can and cannot do. He turns left and makes his way up an incline. If he can’t retrace his steps, he can at least climb up and try to find some familiar landmarks. 

Pieces of gravel roll down below his feet as he makes his way up the small incline, digging the tips of his boots into the spots where rocks jut out, fingers gripping tightly at the protruding stones and gnarled roots of trees rising past the surface of the soil.

When he reaches the zenith, he feels grimy, hands dusty and sweat gathering under his collar. But worse, he feels his stomach sink as he looks across the swath of dense woodland and realizes there is nothing out there he recognizes. He’s nowhere near the lake that bracketed the campsite. He cannot see the trail that led down to the car. Instead, he sees only a layer of fog, slowly rising above the treetops, dissipating in the brightening sunlight. He huffs out a breath, trying to stop the panic in its tracks as he feels his chest tighten again. How could he have walked so far? It was still morning and yet it seemed he was miles away from the campsite. He looks over the expanse of forest again, trying to formulate a plan. The rangers’ station is easier to find. If he can just make his way there, he’ll be fine. He’s sure. He looks towards the sun rising at the east. If he heads north, to his left, he’ll make it back to the station. He has to.

He starts walking. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aha. a cliffhanger. fuck you. (not really though)
> 
> if I don't resolve this cliffhanger by next week feel free to roast me on a spit
> 
> also, to the people who have been commenting on this love you ;-;


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